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I'HE  MOTHER 

AND  OTHER  POEMS  BY 
S.WEIR  MITCHELL 
AUTHOR  OF  A  PSALM 


UC-NRLF 


B  ^  bis  MDfi 


MDCCCXCll 


THE   MOTHER 
AND   OTHER    POEMS 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.  D.,  LL.  D.  Harv. 

AUTHOR   OF   "  A    PSALM    OF   DEATHS    AND   OTHER    POEMS,"    ETC 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

1893 


Copyright,  1S92, 
By  S.  weir   MITCHELL. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Ca 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Mother 

12 

RESPONSIBILITy 

on 
The  Roman  Campagna "^ 

The  Protestant  Cemetery  at  Rome      .        .        •        23 

x>                                                               ....    26 
Roma 

My  Lady  of  the  Roses '^ 

The  Quaker  Lady ^ 

The  Wreck  of  the  Emmelinb 38 


Venice 

Venice  to  Italy 


45 
46 


The  Decay  of  Venice 47 

Pisa:  The  Duomo ^ 

The  Vestal's  Dream 4" 

Lincoln "" 

The  Lost  Philopena °l 


St.  Christopher ^^ 

Dreamland '^ 


Evening  by  the  Sea 
Idleness   . 


58 
59 


A  Graveyard "" 

Loss ^1 


ivii89455 


IV  CONTENTS 

Come  in 62 

Good-Night 63 

The  Risikg  Tide 64 

Verses 65 


THE  MOTHER 

"  I  will  incline  mine  ear  to  the  parable,  and  show  my  dark 
speech  upon  the  harp." 

Cheistmas  !     Christmas  !     merry     Christmas  I 

rang  the  bells.     O  God  of  grace  ! 
In  the  stillness  of  the  death-room  motionless  I 

kept  my  plaee, 
While  beneath  my  eyes  a  wanness  came  upon 

the  little  face, 
And  an  empty  smile  that  stung  me,  as  the  pallor 

grew  apace. 
Then,  as   if   from   some  far  distance,  spake  a 

voice :  "  The  child  is  dead." 
"  Dead  ?  "  I  cried.    "  Is  God  not  good  ?    What 

thing  accursed  is  that  you  said  ?  " 
Swift  I  searched  their  eyes  of   pity,  swaying, 

bowed,  and  all  my  soul. 
Shrunken  as  a  hand  had  crushed  it,  crumpled 

like  a  useless  scroll 
Read  and  done  with,  passed  from  sorrows  :  only 

with  me  lingered  yet 


:£  THE  MOTHER 

Some  dim  sense  of  easeful  comfort  in  the  glad 

leave  to  forget. 
But  again  life's  scattered  fragments,  memories 

of  joy  and  woe, 
Tremulously  came  to  oneness,  as  a  storm-torn 

lake  may  grow 
Quiet,  winning  back  its  pictures,  when  the  wild 

winds  cease  to  blow. 
As  if  called  for  God's  great  audit  came  a  vision 

of  my  years, 
Broken  gleams  of  youth  and  girlhood,  all  the 

woman's  love  and  tears. 
Marveling,  myself  I  saw  as  one  another  sees, 

and  smiled. 
Crooning  o'er  my  baby  dolls,  —  part  a  mother, 

part  a  child ; 
Then,  half  sorry,  ceased  to  wonder  why  I  left 

my  silent  brood. 
Till  the  lessoning  years  went  by  me,  and  the  in- 
stinct, love-renewed, 
Stirred   again   life's   stronger   fibre,   and   were 

mine  these  living  things  ; 
Bone  of  my  bone  !  flesh  of  my  flesh !     Who  on 

earth  a  title  brings 
Flawless  as  this  mother-title,  free  from  aught  of 

mortal  stain, 


THE  MOTHER  3 

Innocent  and   pure  possession,  double-born   of 

joy  and  pain  ? 
Oh,  what  wonder  these  covdd  help  me,  set  me 

laughing,  though  I  sobbed 
As  they  drew  my  very  heart  out,  and  the  laden 

breasts  were  robbed  ! 
Tender  buds  of  changef  id  pleasure  came  as  come 

the  buds  of  May, 
Trivial,  wondrous,  unexpected,  blossoming  from 

day  to  day. 
Ah!    the   clutch   of   tendril-fingers,    that   with 

nature's  cunning  knew 
So  to  coil  in  sturdy  grapple  round  the   stem 

from  which  they  grew. 
Shall  a  man  this  joy  discover  ?     How  the  heart- 
wine  to  the  brain 
Rushed  with  shock  of  bliss  when,  startled,  first 

I  won  this  simple  gain  ! 
How  I  mocked  those  seeking  fingers,  eager  for 

their  earliest  toy, 
TeUing  none  my  new-found  treasure  !    Miser  of 

the  mother's  joy. 
Quick  I  caught  the  first  faint  ripple,  answering 

me  with  lip  and  eyes. 
As  I  stooped  with  mirthful  purpose,  keen  to 
capture  fresh  replies ; 


4  THE  MOTHER 

Oh,  the  pretty  wonder  of  it,  when  was  born  the 

art  to  smile, 
Or  the  new,  gay  trick  of  laughter  filled  my  eyes 

with  tears  the  wliile,  — 
Helpful  tears,  love's   final  language,  when  the 

lips  no  more  can  say, 
Tears,  like  kindly  prophets,  warning  of  another, 

darker  day. 
Thus  my  vision  lost  its  gladness,  and  I  stood  on 

life's  dim  strand. 
Watching  where  a  little  love-bark  drifted  slowly 

from  the  land ; 
For  again  the  bells  seemed  ringing  Christmas 

o'er  the  snow  of  dawn, 
And  my  dreaming  memory  hurt  me  with  a  hot 

face,  gray  and  drawn. 
And  with  small  hands  locked  in  anguish.     Ah ! 

those  days  of  helpless  pain  ! 
Mine  the  mother's  wrathful  sorrow.     Ah!  my 

child,  hadst  thou  been  Cain, 
Father  of  the  primal  murder,  black  with  every 

hideous  thought. 
Cruel   were   the   retribution ;    for,   alas !   what 

good  is  wrought 
When  the  very  torture  ruins  all  the  fine  machine 

of  thought  ? 


THE  MOTHER  5 

So  with  reeling  brain  I  questioned,  while  the 

fevered  cheek  grew  white, 
And  at  last  I  seemed  to  pass  with  him,  released, 

to  outer  night. 
Seraph  voices  whispered  round  me.   "  God,"  they 

said,  "  hath  set  o\xv  task,  — 
Thou  to  question,  we  to  answer :  fear  not ;  ask 

what  thou  wouldst  ask." 
Wildly  beat  my  heart.     Thought  only,  regnant, 

held  its  sober  pace. 
Whilst,  a  winged  mind,  I  wandered  in  the  bleak 

domain  of  space. 
Then  I  sought  and  saw  untroubled  all  the  mys- 
tery of  time. 
Where  beneath  me  rolled  the  earth-star  in  its 

first  chaotic  slime. 
As  bewildering  ages  passing  with  their  cychc 

changes  came, 
Heaving  land   and  'whelming  waters,  ice   and 

fierce  volcanic  flame. 
Sway  and  shock  of  tireless  atoms,  pulsing  with 

the  throb  of  force. 
Whilst  the  planet,  rent  and  shaken,  fled  upon 

its  mighty  course. 
Last,  with  calm  of  wonder  hushed,  I  saw  amid 
the  surging  strife 


6  THE  MOTHER 

Rise  the  first  faint  stir  of  being  and  the  tardy 

morn  of  life,  — 
Life  in  countless  generations.     Speechless,  mer- 
cilessly dumb, 
Swept  by  ravage  of  disaster,  tribe  on  tribe  in 

silence  come, 
Till  the  yearning  sense  found  voices,  and  on 

hill,  and  shore,  and  plain. 
Dreary  from  the  battling  myriads  rose  the  birth- 
right wail  of  pain. 
God   of   pity !    Son   of    sorrows !      Wherefore 

should  a  will  unseen 
Launch  on  years  of  needless  anguish  this  great 

agonized  machine  ? 
Was  Himself  who  willed  this  torment  but  a 

slave  to  law  self-made  ? 
Or  had  some  mad  angel-demon  here,  unchecked 

and  undismayed. 
Leave  to  make  of  earth  a  Job ;  imtil  the  cruel 

game  was  played 
Free  to  whirl  the  spinning  earth-toy  where  his 

despot  forces  wrought, 
While  he  watched  each  sense  grow  keener  as 

the  lifted  creature  bought 
With  the  love-gift  added  sorrow,  and  there  came 

to  man's  estate 


THE  MOTHER  7 

Will,  the  helpless,  thought,  the  bootless,  all  the 

deathward  war  with  fate  ? 
Had  this  lord  of  trampled  millions  joy  or  grief, 

when  first  the  mind, 
Awful  prize  of  contests  endless,  rose  its  giant 

foes  to  bind  ; 
When   his  puppet   tamed  the   forces  that  had 

helped  its  birth  to  breed. 
And  with   growth  of   wisdom   master,  trained 

them  to  its  growing  need  ; 
Last,  upon  the  monster  turning,  on  the  serpent 

form  of  Pain, 
Cried,  "  Bring  forth  no  more  in  anguish ; "  with 

the  arrows  of  the  brain 
Smote  this  brute  thing  that  no  use  had  save  to 

teach  him  to  refrain 
When  earth's  baser  instincts  tempted,  and  the 

better  thought  was  vain  ? 
Then  my  soul   one   harshly  answered,  "  Thou 

hast  seen  the  whole  of  earth. 
All  its  boundless  years  of  misery,  yea,  its  glad- 
ness and  its  mirth. 
Yet  thou  hast  a  life  created !     Hadst  thou  not 

a  choice  ?     Why  cast 
Purity  to  life's  mad  chances,  where  defeat  is  sure 

at  last  ?  " 


8  THE  MOTHER 

Low  I  moaned,  "  My  tortured  baby,"  and   a 

gentler  voice  replied, 
"One  alone  thy  soul  can  answer, — this,  this 

only,  is  denied. 
Yet  take  counsel  of  thy  sadness.     Should  God 

give  thy  will  a  star 
Freighted  with  eternal  pleasure,  free  from  agony 

and  war, 
Wouldst  thou  wish  it  ?     Think  !     Time  is  not 

for  the  souls  who  roam  in  space. 
Speak !      Thy   will   shall  have   its   way.      Be 

mother  of  one  joyous  race. 
Choose !     Yon   time-worn   world   beneath   thee 

thou  shalt  people  free  from  guilt. 
There  nor  pain  nor  death  shall  ruin,  never  there 

shall  blood  be  spilt." 
Then  I  trembled,  hesitating,  for  I  saw  its  beauty 

born, 
Saw  a  Christ-like  world    of   beings    where    no 

beast  by  beast  was  torn, 
Where  the  morrows  bred  no  sorrows,  and  the 

gentle  knew  not  scorn. 
"  Yet,"  I  said,  "  if  life  have  meaning,  and  man 

must  be,  what  shall  lift 
These  but  born  for  joy's   inaction,  these  who 

crave  no  added  gift  ? 


THE  MOTHER  ^ 

Let  the  world  you  bid  me  people  hui-1  forever 

through  the  gloom, 
Tenantless,  a  blasted  record  of  some  huge  fu- 
nereal doom, 
Sad  with  unremembered  slaughter,  but  a  cold 
and  lonely  tomb." 

Deep  and  deeper  grew  the  stillness,  and  I  knew 

how  vain  my  quest. 
Not  by  God's  supremest  angel  is  that  awful  se- 
cret guessed. 
Yet  with  duU  reiteration,  like  the  pendulum's 

dead  throb, 
Beat  my  heart ;  a  moaning  infant,  aU  my  body 

seemed  to  sob. 
And   a  voice  like  to  my  baby's  caUed  to  me 

across  the  night 
As  the  darkness  fell  asunder,  and  I  saw  a  waU 

of  light 
Barred  with  crucificial  shadows,  whence  a  weary 

wind  did  blow 
Shuddering.     I  felt  it  pass  me  heavy  with  its 

freight  of  woe. 
Said  a  voice,  -  Behold  God's  dearest ;  also  these 

no  answer  know. 


10  THE  MOTHER 

These  be  they  who  paid  in  sorrow  for  the  right 

to  bid  thee  hear. 
Had  their  lives  in  ease  been  cradled,  had  they 

never  knoA^vn  a  tear, 
Feebly  had  their  psalms  of  warning  fallen  upon 

the  listening  ear. 
God  the  sun  is  God  the  shadow ;   and  where 

pain  is,  God  is  near. 
Take  again  thy  life  and  use  it  with  a  sweetened 

sense  of  fear ; 
God  is  Father  !  God  is  Mother  !     Regent  of  a 

growing  soul, 
Free  art  thou  to  grant  mere  pleasure,  free  to 

teach  it  uncontrol. 
Time  is  childhood !  larger  manhood   bides  be- 
yond life's  simset  hour. 
Where  far  other  foes  are  waiting ;  and  with  ever 

gladder  power. 
Still  the  lord  of  awful  choice,  O  striving  crear- 

ture  of  the  sod, 
Thou  shalt  learn  that  imperfection  is  the  noblest 

gift  of  God ! 
For    they   mock  his   ample   purpose   who   but 

dream,  beyond  the  sky, 


THE  MOTHER  11 

Of  a  heaven  where  will  may  slumber,  and  the 

trained  decision  die 
In  the  competence  of  answer  found  in  death's 

immense  reply." 

Then  my  vision  passed,  and  weeping,  lo !  I  woke, 

of  death  bereft ; 
At  my  breast  the  baby  brother,  yonder  there 

the  dead  I  left. 
For  my  heart  two  worlds  divided  :  his,  my  lost 

one's  ;  his,  who  pressed 
Closer,  waking  all  the  mother,  as  he  drew  the 

aching  breast. 
While  twain  spirits,  joy  and  sorrow,  hovered 

o'er  my  plundered  nest. 
Newport,  October,  1891. 


RESPONSIBILITY 

Thus,  lying  among  the  roses  in  the  garden  of  the  Great  Inn, 
sang  Attar  El  Din  of  things  yet  to  be,  when  the  Angels  of 
Affirmation  and  Denial  should  struggle  for  the  soul  of  him 
dead. 

"  I  MoONKiR,  the  angel,  am  come 

To  count  of  his  good  deeds  the  sum, 

For  this  mortal,  death-stricken  and  dumb." 

"  I  Nekkeer,  the  clerk  of  ill  thought, 
Am  here  to  dispute  what  hath  wrought 
This  maker  of  song,  come  to  naught. 

"  Let  us  call  from  the  valleys  of  gloom, 
From  the  night  graves  of  sleep  and  the  tomb. 
The  wretched  he  lured  to  their  doom." 

Said  Moonkir,  the  angel  of  light, 

"  Life  is  made  of  the  day  and  the  night ; 

Let  us  summon  the  souls  he  set  right." 

(12) 


RESPONSIBILITY  13 

Then,  parting  the  dark  tents  of  sleep, 
Or  stirred  from  their  earth-couches  deep. 
Came  souls  that  were  glad  or  did  weep. 

Spake  a  Voice  : 

"  I  sat  beside  the  cistern  on  the  sand, 
When  this  man's  song  did  take  me  in  its  hand, 
And  hurled  me  helpless,  as  a  sling  the  stone 
That  knows  not  will  or  pity  of  its  own. 
Within  my  heart  was  seed  of  murder  sown. 
So   once  I  struck, —  yea,   twice,  when  he  did 
groan." 

"  Ay,  that  was  the  song,"  said  a  voice, 

"  Which  I  heard  as  I  lay 

'Gainst  my  camel's  broad  flanks. 

Thinking  how  to  repay 

The  death-debt,  ere  night  fled  away. 

And  I  rose  as  he  sang,  to  rejoice 

With  a  blessing  of  thanks, 

For  the  song  took  my  slack  wiU  and  me 

As  a  strong  man  might  lustily  throw 

The  power  of  hand  and  of  knee 

To  string  up  to  purpose  a  bow. 

Quick  I  stole  through  the  dark,  but  was  stayed. 


14  RESPONSIBILITY 

Just  to  hear  how,  with  every-day  phrase, 
Such  as  useth  a  child  or  a  maid, 
From  praise  of  decision  to  praise 
Of  the  quiet  of  evening,  he  fell, 
As  a  brook  groweth  still  on  the  plain 
To  picture  how  come  through  the  grain 
The  women  with  jars  to  the  well. 
Near  I  drew  o'er  the  sands  cool  and  gray 
With  my  knife  in  my  teeth,  swift  to  slay. 
Hot  and  wet  felt  my  hand  as  I  crept ; 
Blank-eyed  'neath  my  eyes  the  man  lay  ; 
This  other  had  struck  where  he  slept." 

Then  Moonkir,  who  treasures  good  deeds, 

To  mark  how  the  total  exceeds. 

Said,  "  He  soweth  of  millet  and  weeds 

"  Who  casts  forth  a  song  in  the  night, 
As  a  pigeon  is  flung  for  its  flight, 
He  knoweth  not  where  't  will  alight. 

"  Lo,  Allah  a  wind  doth  command, 
And  the  caravan  dies  in  the  sand. 
And  the  good  ship  is  sped  to  the  land." 


BESPONSIBILITY  15 

Spake  a  Voice  : 

"  I  lay  among  the  idle  on  the  grass, 
And  saw  before  me  come  and  go,  alas ! 
This  evil  rhymer.     And  he  sang  how  God 
Is  but  the  cruel  user  of  the  rod. 
And  how  the  wine  cup  better  is  than  prayer  ; 
Whereon  I  cursed,  and  counseled  with  despair. 
And  drank  with  him,  and  left  my  field  untilled : 
So  all  my  house  with  want  and  woe  was  filled." 

Spake  a  Voice : 

"  And  I,  that  took  no  heed  of  things  divine. 

And  ever  loved  to  loiter  with  the  wine. 

Was  stii'red  to  think,  and  straightway  sobered 

went. 
And  in  the  folded  stillness  of  my  tent 
Struggled  with  Allah,  and  at  morning  fair 
Beheld  this  poet  like  the  rest  in  prayer." 

Cried  he  whose  proportion  of  sin 
These  angels  considered  within, 
Cried  the  soul  of  this  Attar  El  Din, 

"  O  weigher  of  goodness  and  light, 
O  stern  clerk  of  evil  and  night. 
Between  the  slow  comings  and  flight 


16  RESPONSIBILITY 

"  Of  the  sun  and  the  day-death  there  lies, 
Ere  sleep  shall  have  cloaked  a  man's  eyes, 
Ere  the  red  dawn  shall  bid  him  arise, 

"  An  hour  when  the  prayer  seed  is  strown ; 

Man  tilleth  or  letteth  alone, 

For  the  ground  where  it  falls  is  his  own, 

"  Behold  at  even-time  within  my  tent 

I  wailed  in  song  because  a  death-shaft,  sent 

From  Azrael's  bow,  had  laid  again  in  dust 

My  eldest  born ;  I  sang  because  I  must. 

For  hate,  love,  joy,  or  grief,  like  Allah's  birds, 

I  have  but  song,  and  man's  dull  use  of  words 

Fills  not  the  thirsty  cup  of  my  desire 

To  hurt  my  brothers  with  the  scorch  of  fire 

That  burns  within.     Yea,  they  must  share  my 

fate, 
Love  with  me,  hate,  with  me  be  desolate ; 
And  so  I  drew  my  bowstring  to  the  eye. 
And  shot  my  shafts,  I  cared  not  where  or  why, 
If  but  the  men  indifferent,  who  lay 
Beneath  the  palm-trees  at  the  fall  of  day, 
I  could  make  see  with  me  the  dead  boy's  look 
That  swayed  me  like  the  bent  reeds  of  the  brook. 


RESPONSIBILITY  17 

"  But  one  who  heard,  and  through  long  stress 

of  grief 
Wrestled  with  agony  of  loss  in  vain, 
Into  the  desert  went,  and  made  full  brief 
A  clearance  with  the  creditor  called  Pain, 
And  by  a  sword  thrust  gave  his  heart  relief. 

«  One  whose  dry  eyes  were  as  the  summer  sand 
Wept  as  I  sang,  and  said,  '  I  understand.' 

"  And  one  who  loved  did  also  comprehend, 
Because  I  sang  how,  to  life's  bitter  end, 
The  death-fear  sweetens  love  ;  and  went  his  way 
With   deepened   love   to  where   the   dark-eyed 
lay." 

Spake  a  Voice  : 

"  My  father's  foe,  a  dying  man, 

Thirst-stricken  by  the  brookside  lay  ; 

Its  prattle  mocked  him  as  it  ran 

So  near,  and  yet  so  far  away. 

The  cold,  quick  waters  soothed  my  feet, 

Hot  from  the  long  day's  desert  heat ; 

I  drank  deep  draughts,  and  deep  delight 

Of  sated  vengeance.     Life  grew  sweet 


18  RESPONSIBILITY 

Because  the  great  breast  heaved  and  groaned, 

The  red  eyes  yearned,  the  black  lips  moaned. 

Because  my  foe  should  die  ere  night. 

Then,  as  a  rich  man  scatters  alms, 

A  careless  singer  'neath  the  palms, 

With  lapse  and  laughter,  and  pauses  long. 

Merrily  squandered  the  gold  of  song. 

Just  a  babble  of  simple  childish  chants  : 

How  they  dig  little  wells  with  the  small  brown 

hand ; 
How  they  watch  the  caravan  march  of  the  ants, 
And  build  tall  mosques  with  the  shifting  sand. 
And  are  mighty  sheiks  of  a  corner  of  land. 

"  Ah  !  the  rush,  and  the  joy  of  the  singing. 
Swept  peace  o'er  my  hate,  and  was  sweet 
As  the  freshness  the  waters  were  bringing 
Was  cool  to  my  desert-baked  feet. 

"  Thereon  I  raised  mine  enemy,  and  gave 
The  cold  clear  water  of  the  wave  ; 
And  when  he  blessed  me  I  did  give  again. 
And  had  strange  fear  my  bounty  were  but  vain ; 
When,  as  I  bent,  he  smote  me  through  the  breast. 
And  that  is  all !     Great  Allah  knows  the  rest."' 


RESPONSIBILITY  19 

Said  Nekkeer,  the  clerk  of  man's  wrong, 
"  Great  Solomon's  self  might  be  long 
In  judging  this  mad  son  of  song." 

Cried  the  poet,  "  Shall  two  men  agree  ? 
Thou  mighty  collector  of  sin. 
Be  advised,  come  with  me  to  the  Inn  ; 
There  are  friends  who  shall  witness  for  me. 
Great-beUied,  respectable,  stanch, 
One  arm  set  a-crook  on  the  haunch, 
They  will  pour  the  red  wine  of  advice ; 
And  behold,  ye  shaU  know  in  a  trice 
How  hopeless  of  wisdom  to  weigh 
The  song  words  a  poet  may  say." 

Said  Nekkeer,  the  clerk  of  ill  thought, 
"Ah!  where  shall  decision  be  sought? 
Let  us  quit  the  crazed  maker  of  verse, 
A  confuser  of  good  and  of  worse." 

"  But  first,"  quoth  this  Attar  El  Din, 
"  I  am  dry  ;  leave  my  soul  at  the  Inn." 
Newport,  October,  1891. 


THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 

How  gentle  here  is  Nature's  mood  !     She  lays 
A  woman-hand  upon  the  troubled  heart, 
Bidding  the  world  away  and  time  depart, 
While  the  brief  minutes  swoon  to  endless  days 
Filled  full  of  sad,  inconstant  thoughtfulness. 

Behold  't  is  eventide.     Dun  cattle  stand 

Drowsed   in  the  misted  grasses.     From   the 

hollows  deep. 
Dim  veils,  adrift,  o'er  arch  and  tower  sweep, 
Casting  a  dreary  doubt  along  the  land, 
Weighting   the  twilight  with  some  vague  dis- 
tress. 

Transient  and  subtle,  not  to  thought  more  near 
Than  spirit  is  to  flesh,  about  me  rise 
Dim  memories,  long  lost  to  love's  sad  eyes  ; 

Now  are  they  wandering  shadows,  strange  and 
drear, 

That  from  their  natal  substance  far  have  strayed. 

(20) 


THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA  21 

The  witches  of  the  mind  possess  the  time, 

And  cry,  "  Behold  thy  dead  !  "     They  come, 

they  pass ; 
We  yearn  to  give  them  feature,  face.     Alas ! 

Love  hath  no  morn  for  memory's  failing  prime  ; 

What  once  was  sweet  with  truth  is  but  a  shade. 

The  ghosts  of  nameless  sorrow,  joy,  despair. 
Emotions  that  have  no  remembered  source. 
Love-waifs  from  other  worlds,  hope,  fear,  re- 
morse 
Born  of  some  vision's  crime,  wail  through  the  air, 
Crying,  We  were  and  are  not,  —  that  is  all. 

Yet  sweet  the  indecisive  evening  hour 

That  hath   of   earth   the  least.      Unreal   as 

dreams 
Dreamed   within   dreams,  and    ever  further, 
seems 
The  sound  of  human  toil,  while  grass  and  flower 
Bend  where  the  mercy  of  the  dew  doth  fall. 

Strange  mysteries  of  expectation  wait 

Above  the  grave-mounds  of  the  storied  space. 
Where,  buried,  lie  a   nation's  strength   and 
grace, 


22  THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 

And  the  sad  joys  of  Rome's  imperious  state 
That  perished  of  its  insolent  excess. 

A  dull,  gray  shroud  o'er  this  vast  burial  rests, 
Is  deathly  still,  or  seems  to  rise  and  fall, 
As  on  a  dear  one,  dead,  the  moveless  pall 

Doth   cheat   the   heart  with  stir  of  her  white 
breasts. 

Mocking  the  troubled  hour  with  worse  distress. 

A  deathful  languor  holds  the  twilight  mist, 
Unearthly  colors  drape  the  Alban  hills, 
A  dull  malaria  the  spirit  fills  ; 
Death  and  decay  all  beauty  here  have  kissed, 
Pledging  the  land  to  sorrowing  loveliness. 
Rome,  May,  1891. 


THE   PROTESTANT   CEMETERY  AT   ROME 

THE   GRAVE    OF   KEATS 
"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water." 

Fair  little  city  of  the  pilgrim  dead, 

Dear  are  thy  marble  streets,  thy  rosy  lanes: 

Easy  it  seems  and  natural  here  to  die, 

And  death  a  mother,  who  with  tender  care 

Doth  lay  to  sleep  her  ailing  little  ones. 

Old  are  these  graves,  and  they  who,  mournfully, 

Saw    dust     to     dust     return,    themselves     are 

mourned ; 
Yet,  in  green  cloisters  of  the  cypress  shade, 
FuU-choired  chants  the  fearless  nightmgale 

Ancestral  songs  learned  when   the  world  was 
young. 

Sing  on,  sing  ever  in  thy  breezy  homes  ; 

Toss  earthward  from  the  white  acacia  bloom 

The  mingled  joy  of  fragrance  and  of  song ; 

Sing  in  the  pure  security  of  bliss. 

1  Inscription  placed  on  his  tomb,  at  Keats's  request. 
(23) 


24        PROTESTANT  CEMETERY  AT  ROME 

These  dead  concern  thee  not,  nor  thee  the  fear 

That  is  the  shadow  of  our  earthly  loves. 

And  me  thou  canst  not  comfort ;  tender  hearts 

Inherit  here  the  anguish  of  the  doubt 

Writ  on  this  gravestone.     He,  at  last,  I  trust, 

Serenity  of  confident  attainment  knows. 

The  night  falls,  and  the  darkened  verdure  starred 

With  pallid  roses  shuts  the  world  away. 

Sad  wandering   soids  of   song,   frail   ghosts  of 

thought 
That  voiceless  died,  the  massing  shadows  haunt, 
Troubling  the  heart  with  unfulfilled  delight. 
The  moon  is  listening  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 
And,  like  the  airy  march  of  mighty  wings. 
The  rhythmic  throb  of  stately  cadences 
Intkralls    the    ear    with    some    high-measured 

verse. 
Where  ecstasies  of  passion-nurtured  words 
For  great  thoughts  find  a  home,  and  fill  the 

mind 
With  echoes  of  divinely  purposed  hopes 
That  wore  on  earth  the  death-pall  of  despair. 
Night  darkens  round  me.     Never  more  in  life 
May  I,  companioned  by  the  friendly  dead, 
Walk  in  this  sacred  fellowship  again  ; 


PROTESTANT  CEMETERY  AT  ROME       25 

Therefore,  thou  silent  singer  'neath  the  grass, 
Sing  to  me  still  those  sweeter  songs  unsung, 
"  Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone," 
Caressing  thought  with  wonderments  of  phrase 
Such  as  thy  springtide  rapture  knew  to  win. 
Ay,  sing  to  me  thy  unborn  summer  songs. 
And  the  ripe  autumn  lays  that  might  have  been ; 
Strong  wine  of  fruit  mature,  whose  flowers  alone 
we  know. 
R0M£,  May,  1891. 


ROMA 

Ripe  hours  there  be  that  do  anticipate 
The  heritage  of  death,  and  bid  us  see, 
As  from  the  vantage  of  eternity, 

The  shadow-symbols  of  historic  fate. 

As  o'er  some  Alpine  simmiit's  lonely  steep, 
Blinding  and  terrible  with  spears  of  light, 
Hurling  the  snows  from  many  a  shaken  height. 

The  storm-clad  spirits  of  the  mountain  sweep,  — 

Thus,  in  the  solitude  where  broodeth  thought, 
Torn  from  rent  chasms  of  the  soimdless  past, 
Go  by  me,  as  if  borne  upon  the  blast. 

The   awful   forms  which   time    and   man    have 
wrought. 

Swift  through  the  gloom  each  mournful  chariot 
rolls, 
Dim  shapes  of  empire  urge  the  flying  steeds, 

(26) 


SOMA  27 

Featured  with  man's  irrevocable  deeds, 
Robed  with   the   changeful   passions   of   men's 
souls. 

Ethereal  visions  pass  serene  in  prayer, 
Their  eyes  aglow  with  sacrificial  light ; 
Phantoms  of  creeds  long  dead,  their  garments 
bright. 

Drip  red  with  blood  of  torture  and  despair. 

In  such  an  hour  my  spirit  did  behold 

A  woman  wonderful.     Unnumbered  years 
Left  in  her  eyes  the  beauty  born  of  tears, 

And  full  they  were  of  fatal  stories  old. 

The  trophies  of  her  immemorial  reign 

The  shadowy  great  of  eld  beside  her  bore ; 
A  broidery  of  ancient  song  she  wore. 

And  the  glad  muses  held  her  regal  train. 

Still  hath  she  kingdom  o'er  the  souls  of  men ; 

Dear  is  she  always  in  her  less  estate. 

The  sad,  the  gay,  the  thoughtful,  on  her  wait. 
Praising  her  evermore  with  tongue  and  pen. 


28  EOMA 

Stately  her  ways  and  sweet,  and  all  her  own  ; 
As  one  who  has  forgotten  time  she  lives, 
Loves,  loses,  lures  anew,  and  ever  gives,  — 

She  who  all  misery  and  all  joy  hath  known. 

If  thou  wouldst  see  her,  as  the  twilight  fails. 
Go  forth  along  the  ancient  street  of  tombs. 
And  when  the  purple  shade  divinely  glooms 

High  o'er  the  Alban  hills,  and  night  prevails, 

If  then  she  is  not  with  thee  while  the  ligfht 
Glows  over  roof  and  column,  tower  and  dome. 
And  the  dead  stir  beneath  thy  feet,  and  Rome 

Lies  in  the  solemn  keeping  of  the  night,  — 

If  then  she  be  not  thine,  not  thine  the  lot 
Of  those  some  angel  rescues  for  an  hour 
From  earth's  mean  limitations,  granting  power 

To  see  as  man  may  see  when  time  is  not. 

Rome,  May,  1891. 


MY   LADY  OF  THE   ROSES 

At  Venice,  while  the  twilight  hour 
Yet  lit  a  gray-waUed  garden  space, 
I  saw  a  woman  fair  of  face 

Pass,  as  in  thought,  from  flower  to  flower. 
The  roses,  haply,  something  said. 
For  here  and  there  she  bent  her  head, 

TiU,  startled  from  their  hidden  nest 

In  the  covert  of  her  breast. 

Blushes  rose,  like  fluttered  birds. 
At  those  naughty  rosy  words. 

One  need  not  wise  as  Portia  be 

To  guess  love  held  her  heart  in  fee. 
Prudently  a  full-blown  rose 
For  her  confidence  she  chose  : 

Whispering,  she  took  its  breath. 

And,  for  what  its  fragrance  saith. 
Smiling  knelt,  and  kissed  it  twice ; 
Caught  it,  held  it,  kissed  it  thrice. 

Ah !  her  kiss  the  rose  had  killed ; 
Wrecked,  in  tender  disarray 

(29) 


30  MY  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES 

On  the  ground  its  petals  lay, 

All  its  autumn  fate  fulfilled. 
Swiftly  from  her  paling  face 
Fell  the  rosy  flush  apace. 

Had  her  kiss  recalled  a  bliss 

Life  for  evermore  should  miss  ? 
Had  there  been  a  fatal  hour 
When  false  lips  had  hurt  the  flower 

Of  love,  and  now  its  sad  estate 

She  saw  in  that  dead  rose's  fate  ? 
Who  may  know  ?     A  little  while 
She  lingered  with  a  doubtful  smile  ; 

Took  then  a  yoimger  rose,  whose  slips 

The  garden  knew,  and  with  her  lips 

Its  color  matched.     What  gracious  words 
It  said  might  know  the  garden  birds,  — 

Something,  perchance,  that  liked  her  well ; 

But  roses  kiss,  and  never  tell. 

What  confession,  what  dear  boon, 
Heard  that  ruddy  priest  of  June  ? 

Was  it  a  mad  gypsy-rose 

Fortunes  eager  to  disclose. 

Gravely  whispering  predictions 
Rich  with  love's  unending  fictions, 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  ROSES  31 

Saying  nonsense  good  to  hear, 
Like  a  pleasant-mannered  seer  ? 

Gypsy  palms  are  crossed  with  gold, 

But  my  lady,  gayly  bold, 
In  the  antique  coin  of  kisses 
Paid  for  prophecy  of  blisses  ; 

And,  to  make  assurance  sure, 

This  conspirator  demure 
Murmured,  in  a  pretty  way, 
What  her  prophet  ought  to  say. 

Low  she  laughed,  and  then  was  gone ; 

My  pleasant  little  play  was  done. 

Alone  I  sit  and  muse.     Below, 
Black  gondolas  glide  to  and  fro, 

Like  shadows  that  have  stolen  away 

From  centuried  arch  and  palace  gray. 
Then,  as  if  out  of  memory  brought. 

The  sequel  of  my  garden  masque 
Comes  silently,  by  fancy  wrought,  — 

A  gift  I  had  not  cared  to  ask. 

Lo  !  where  the  terraced  marble  ends. 

Barred  by  the  sweetbrier's  scented  bound, 
The  lady  of  my  dream  descends. 


32  MY  LADY  OF  THE  EOSES 

And  day  by  day  the  garden  ground 
Her  footsteps  loiow ;  with  lingering  gait, 
She  wanders  early,  wanders  late, 

Or,  sadly  patient,  on  the  lawn 
Each  day  renews  her  gentle  trust. 

When,  from  the  busy  highway  drawn, 
Float  high  its  curves  of  sunlit  dust. 

The  children  of  her  garden  greet 

With  counsel  innocent  and  sweet 

The  coming  of  her  constant  feet. 
She  whispers,  and  their  low  replies 
Bring  gladness  to  her  lips  and  eyes  ; 

She  will  no  other  company  ; 

For  her  the  flowers  have  come  to  be 

All  of  life's  dimmed  reahty. 
Purple  pansies,  gold  embossed, 
That  in  love  had  once  been  crossed, 
Murmur,  We  have  loved  and  lost ; 

And  the  cool  blue  violets 

Sigh,  We  wait  for  life's  regrets. 
Thistles  gray,  beyond  the  fence, 
Mutter  prickly  common  sense  ; 

While  the  lilies,  pale  and  bent, 

Say,  We  too  sinned,  are  penitent ; 

Only  that  can  bring  content. 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  EOSES  33 

Red  generations  of  the  rose 
Unheeded  passed  to  death's  repose  ; 
The  peach  upon  the  crumbling  wall, 
With  spring-tide  bloom  and  autumn  fall, 
No  proverb  had  to  foster  fear. 
No  time-born  wisdom  brought  her  near. 
The  willows  o'er  two  noisy  brooks, 
In  marriage  come  to  sober  mood. 
Were  but  green  slips,  that  eve  of  May  ; 
Now,  underneath  their  shade  she  looks. 

And  smiling  says,  "  Time  must  be  rude, 
To  keep  him  thus  so  many  a  day." 
They  tell  her  he  is  dead !     "  Ah  !  nay," 
She  answers  ;  "  he  but  rode  away. 
And  he  will  come  again  in  May. 

And  I  can  wait,"  she  says,  and  stands 
With  roses  in  her  thin  white  hands. 
Childlike,  with  innocent  replies. 
She  meets  the  world.     Wide  open  lies 
Her  book  of  life  ;  Time  turns  the  leaves, 
Like  each  to  each,  because  she  grieves 
Nor  less  nor  more,  save  when  in  fear, 
On  one  dark  eve  of  all  the  year. 
Dismayed  lest  love's  divine  distress 
Be  dulled  by  time's  forgetfulness. 
Venice,  June,  1891. 


THE  QUAKER  LADY^ 

'Mid  drab  and  gray  of  mouldered  leaves, 

The  spoil  of  last  October, 
I  see  the  Quaker  lady  stand 

In  dainty  garb  and  sober. 

No  speech  has  she  for  praise  or  prayer, 

No  blushes,  as  I  claim 
To  know  what  gentle  whisper  gave 

Her  prettiness  a  name. 

The  wizard  stUlness  of  the  hour 

My  fancy  aids  :  again 
Return  the  days  of  hoop  and  hood 

And  tranquil  WiUiam  Penn. 

I  see  a  maid  amid  the  wood 

Demurely  calm  and  meek. 
Or  troubled  by  the  mob  of  curls 

That  riots  on  her  cheek. 

'  Oldenlandia  ccerulea  (bluets,  innocence),  known  in  Penn- 
sylvania as  the  "  Quaker  ladies." 
(34) 


THE  QUAKER  LADY  35 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  cheeks  are  red,  — 

Gay  colors  for  a  Friend,  — 
And  Nature  with  her  mocking  rouge 

Stands  by  a  blush  to  lend. 

The  gown  that  holds  her  rosy  grace 

Is  truly  of  the  oddest ; 
And  wildly  leaps  her  tender  heart 

Beneath  the  kerchief  modest. 

It  must  have  been  the  poet  Love 

Who,  while  she  slyly  listened, 
Divined  the  maiden  in  the  flower, 

And  thus  her  semblance  christened. 

Was  he  a  proper  Quaker  lad 

In  suit  of  simple  gray  ? 
What  fortime  had  his  venturous  speech, 

And  was  it  "  yea  "  or  "  nay  "  ? 

And  if  indeed  she  murmured  "  yea," 
And  throbbed  with  worldly  bliss, 

I  wonder  if  in  such  a  case 
Do  Quakers  really  kiss  ? 


36  THE  QUAKER  LADY 

Or  was  it  some  love-wildered  beau 

Of  old  colonial  days, 
With  clouded  cane  and  broidered  coat, 

And  very  artful  ways  ? 

And  did  he  whisper  through  her  curls 
Some  wicked,  pleasant  vow, 

And  swear  no  courtly  dame  had  words 
As  sweet  as  "  thee  "  and  "  thou  "  ? 

Or  did  he  praise  her  dimpled  chin 

In  eager  song  or  sonnet. 
And  find  a  merry  way  to  cheat 

Her  kiss-defying  bonnet  ? 

And  sang  he  then  in  verses  gay, 

Amid  this  forest  shady. 
The  dainty  flower  at  her  feet 

Was  like  his  Quaker  lady  ? 

And  did  she  pine  in  English  fogs, 

Or  was  his  love  enough  ? 
And  did  she  learn  to  sport  the  fan, 

And  use  the  patch  and  puff  ? 


THE  QUAKER  LADY  37 

Alas  !  perhaps  she  played  quadrille, 
And,  naughty  grown  and  older, 

Was  pleased  to  show  a  dainty  neck 
Above  a  snowy  shoidder. 

But  sometimes  in  the  spring,  I  think. 

She  saw,  as  in  a  dream. 
The  meeting-house,  the  home  sedate, 

The  Schuylkill's  quiet  stream ; 

And  sometimes  in  the  minuet's  pause 

Her  heart  went  wide  afield 
To  where,  amid  the  woods  of  May, 

A  blush  its  love  revealed. 

Till  far  away  from  court  and  king 

And  powder  and  brocade. 
The  Quaker  ladies  at  her  feet 

Their  quaint  obeisance  made. 

Newport,  1889. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE  ^ 

Tms  tack  might  fetch  Absecom  bar, 

The  wind  lies  fair  for  the  Dancin'  Jane  ; 

She  's  good  on  a  wind.     If  we  keep  this  way, 
You  might  talk  with  folk  in  the  land  of  Spain. 

A  tidy  snack  of  a  breeze  it  be ; 

Just  hear  it  whistle  'mong  them  dunes ! 
It  ain't  no  more  nor  a  gal  for  strong,  — 

Sakes  !  but  it  hollers  a  lot  of  toones. 

Ye  'd  ought  to  hear  it  October-time 
A-fiddlin'  'mong  them  cat-tails  tall ; 

Our  Bill  can  fiddle,  but  'gainst  that  wind 
He  ain't  no  kind  of  a  show  at  all. 

Respectin'  the  wrack  you  want  to  see, 

It 's  yon  away,  set  hard  and  fast 
On  the  outer  bar.     When  tides  is  low 

You  kin  see  a  mawsel  of  rib  an'  mast. 

1  A  true  story. 
(38) 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE         39 

Four  there  was  on  us,  wrackers  all, 

Bom  and  bred  to  foller  the  sea, 
And  Dad  beside  ;  that 's  him  you  seed 

Las'  night  a-mendin'  them  nets  with  me. 

Waal,  sir,  it  was  n't  no  night  for  talk  ; 

The  pipes  went  out,  an'  we  stood,  we  four, 
A-starin'  dumb  through  the  rattlin'  panes. 

And  says  Tom,  "  I  'd  as  lief  be  here  ashore." 

The  wust  wind  ever  I  knowed 

Was  swoopin'  across  the  deep, 
An'  the  waves  was  humpin'  as  white  as  snow, 

An'  gallopin'  in  like  frighted  sheep. 

Says  Bill,  "  'T  am't  nat'ral,  that  big  moon 
Ed  be  so  quiet,  them  stars  that  bright, 

A-p'intin'  down  from  the  big  old  roof. 
As  they  might  be  icicles  tipt  with  light." 

Lord !  sich  a  wind  !     It  tuk  that  sand 
An'  flung  it  squar'  on  the  winder-sash. 

An'  howled  and  mumbled  'mong  the  scrub. 
An'  yelled  like  a  hurt  thing  'cross  the  mash. 


40  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE 

Old  Dad  as  was  sittin'  'side  the  fire  ; 

Jus'  now  an'  agin  he  riz  his  head, 
An'  says  he,  "  God  help  all  folks  at  sea,  — 

God  help  'em  livin',  and  buiy  'em  dead. 

"  God  help  them  in  smacks  as  sail, 
An'  men  as  v'yage  in  cruisers  tall ; 

God  help  all  as  goes  by  water. 

Big  ship  and  little,  —  help  'em  all." 

"  Amen  !  "  says  Bill,  jus'  like  it  was  church ; 

An'  all  of  a  sudden  says  Joe  to  me, 
"  Hallo !  "  an'  thar'  was  a  flash  of  light, 

An'  the  roar  of  a  gun  away  to  sea. 

"  An'  it 's  each  for  all !  "  cries  Dad  to  me  ; 

"  The  night  ain't  much  of  a  choice  for  sweet.' 
So  up  he  jumps  an'  stamps  aroim'. 

Jus'  for  to  waken  his  sleepy  feet. 

"  An'  it 's  into  ilers  and  on  with  boots," 
Sings  Dad,  "  Thar'  be  n't  no  time  to  spar'. 

Pull  in  y'r  waist-straps.     Hurry  a  bit ; 
The  shortest  time  'U  be  long  out  thar'." 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE         41 

I  did  n't  like  it,  nor  them  no  more, 

But  roun'  we  scuttles  for  oar  and  ropes, 

An'  out  we  plunged  in  the  old  man's  wake, 
For  we  knowed  as  we  was  thar'  only  hopes. 

The  door  druv'  in  ;  the  cinders  flew  ; 

The  house,  it  shook  ;  out  went  the  light ; 
The  air  was  thick  with  squandered  sand, 

As  nipt  like  the  sting  of  a  bluefly  bite. 

We  passed  yon  belt  of  holly  and  pine, 

An'  in  among  them  cedar  an'  oak 
We  stood  a  bit  on  the  upper  shore, 

An'  stared  an'  listened,  but  no  man  spoke. 

"  Whar'  lies  she,  Bill  ?  "  roars  Dad  to  me. 
As  down  we  bended.     Then  bruk'  a  roar 

As  follered  a  lane  of  dancin'  light 

That  flashed  and  fluttered  along  the  shore. 

"  She  's  thar',"   says  Joe ;  "  I  'd  sight   of   her 
then  ; 

She 's  hard  and  high  on  the  outer  bar. 
Nary  a  light,  and  fast  enough. 

And  nary  a  mawsel  of  mast  or  spar." 


42  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE 

Groans  Dad,  "  Good  Lord,  it 's  got  to  be  !  " 
Says  Tom,  "  It  ain't  to  be  done,  I  fear." 

Shouts  Joe,  a-laffin'  (he  alius  laffed), 
"  It  ain't  to  be  done  by  standin'  here." 

Waal,  in  she  went,  third  time  of  tryin',  — 
"  In  with  a  wiU,"  laffs  Joe,  in  a  roar, 

Wind  a-cussin'  and  Dad  a-prayin'. 
But  spry  enough  with  the  steerin'  oar. 

Five  hours  —  an'  cold.     I  was  clean  played  out. 

"  Give  way,"   shouts  Dad,  "  give  way  thar' 
now !  " 
"  Hurray !  "  laffs  Joe.     An'  we  slung  her  along, 

With  a  prayer  to  aft  an'  a  laff  in  the  bow. 

There  was  five  men  glad  when  we  swep'  her  in 

Under  the  lee,  an'  none  too  soon. 
"  Aboard  thar',  mates ! "  shouts  Dad,  an'  the 
wind 

Jus'  howled  like  a  dog  at  full  of  moon. 

«  Up  with  you,  Bill !  "  simg  Dad.     So  I  — 
I  grabbed  for  a  broken  rope  as  hung. 

Gosh !  it  was  stiff  as  an  anchor-stock, 
But  up  I  swarmed,  and  over  I  swung. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE         43 

Ice  ?     She  was  ice  from  stem  to  starn. 

I  gripped  the  rail  an'  sarched  the  wrack, 
An'  cleared  my  eyes,  an'  sarched  agin' 

For  livin'  sign  on  that  slidin'  deck. 

Four  dead  men  in  the  scuppers  lay 

Stiff  as  steel,  they  was  froze  that  fast ; 

An'  one  old  man  was  hangin'  awry, 
Tied  to  the  stimip  of  the  broken  mast. 

Ice-bound  he  were.     But  he  kinder  smiled, 
A-lookin'  up.     I  was  sort  of  skeered. 

Lord !  thinks  I,  thar'  was  many  a  prayer 
Froze  in  the  snow  of  that  orful  beard. 

Thar'  was  one  man  lashed  to  the  wheel, 

An'  his  eyes  was  a-starin'  wild, 
An'  thar',  close-snuggled  up  in  his  arms,  — 

O  Lord,  sir,  the  pity  !  —  a  little  child. 

Now  that  jus'  done  for  me.     Down  I  fell, 
Jus'  fell  to  my  knees, — I  das  n't  stand, — 

An'  I  says,  "  O  Lord !  the  wicked  wind. 
It  has  killed  at  sea  an'  cussed  on  land." 


44  THE  WRECK  OF  THE  EMMELINE 

Then  a  leap  to  the  boat.     "  Dead  all,"  says  I ; 

"  Give  way,"  an'  we  bent  to  the  springin'  oar  ; 
An'  never  no  word  says  boy  or  Dad, 

Till  we  crashed  f  tdl  high  on  the  upper  shore. 

Then  Dad,  he  dropped  for  to  pray. 
But  I  stood  aU  a  shake  on  the  sand ; 

An'  the  old  man  says,  "  I  could  wish  them  souls 
Was  fetched  ashore  to  the  joyful  land." 

But  Joe,  he  laffs.     Says  Dad,  right  mad, 

"  Shut  up.     Ye  'd  grin  if  ye  went  to  heaven." 

"  Why   not  ?  "   says   Joe.     "  As   for  this   here 
earth, 
It  takes  lots  of  laffin'  to  keep  things  even." 

Ready  about,  an'  mind  for  the  boom ; 

Ef  ye  keer  for  to  hold  that  far, 
You  may  see  the  Emmeline,  keel  and  rib, 

Stuck  fast  an'  firm  on  the  outer  bar. 

Newport,  October,  1891. 


VENICE 

I  AM  Venezia,  that  sad  Magdalen, 

Who  with  her  lovers'  arms  the  turbaned  East 

Smote,  and  through  lusty  centuries  of  gain 

Lived  a  wild  queen  of  battle  and  of  feast. 

I  netted,  in  gold  meshes  of  my  hair, 

The  great  of  soul ;  painter  and  poet,  priest, 

Bent  at  my  will  with  pictm-e,  song,  and  prayer, 

And  ever  love  of  me  their  fame  increased, 

Till  I,  a  queen,  became  the  slave  of  slaves, 

And,  like  the  ghost-kings  of  the  Umbrian 

plain. 

Saw  from  my  centuries  torn,  as  from  their 

graves. 

The  priceless  jewels  of  my  haughty  reign. 

Gone  are  my  days  of  gladness,  now  in  vain 

I  hurt  the  tender  with  my  speechless  pain. 

Venice,  June,  1891. 

(45) 


VENICE  TO  ITALY 

O  Italy,  thou  fateful  mistress-land, 

That,  like  Delilah,  won  with  deathful  bliss 

Each  conquering  foe  who  wooed  thy  wanton 

kiss. 

And  sheared  thy  lovers'  strength  with  certain 

hand, 

And  gave  them  to  Philistia's  bonds  of  vice ; 

Smiling  to  see  the  strong  limbs  waste  away, 

The  manly  vigor  crippled  by  decay. 

Usurious  years  exact  the  minute's  price. 

Ah  !  when  ray  great  were  greatest,  ever  glad, 

I  thanked  them  with  the  hope   of   nobler 

deeds. 

Statesman      and     poet,     painter,      sculptor, 

knight,  — 

These  my  dear  lovers  were  ere  days  grew  sad. 

And  them  I  taught  how  mightily  exceeds 

All  other  love  the  love  that  holds  God's  light. 

Venice,  Jwne,  1891. 

(46) 


THE   DECAY  OF  VENICE 

The  glowing  pageant  of  my  story  lies, 
A  shaft  of  light  across  the  stormy  years, 
When  'mid  the  agony  of  blood  and  tears, 
Or  pope  or  kaiser  won  the  mournful  prize, 
Till  I,  the  fearless  child  of  ocean,  heard 

The  step  of  doom,  and  trembling  to  my  fall, 
Remorseful  knew  that  I  had  seen  imstirred 
Proud  Freedom's  death,  the  tyrant's  festival ; 

Whilst  that  Italia  which  was  yet  to  be. 
And  is,  and  shall  be,  sat  a  virgin  pure, 
High  over  Umbria  on  the  mountain  slopes. 
And  saw  the  failing  fires  of  liberty 
Fade  on  the  chosen  shrine  she  deemed  secure. 
When  died  for  many  a  year  man's  noblest  hopes. 
Venice,  June,  1891. 

(47) 


PISA:   THE   DUOMO 

Lo,  this  is  like  a  song  writ  long  ago, 

Born  of  tlie  easy  strength  of  simpler  days, 

Filled  with  the  life  of  man,  his  joy,  his  praise. 

Marriage  and  childhood,  love,  and  sin,  and  woe, 

Defeat  and  victory,  and  all  men  know 

Of  passionate  remorses,  and  the  stays 

That  help  the  weary  on  life's  rugged  ways. 

A  dreaming  seraph  felt  this  beauty  grow 

In  sleep's  pure  hour,  and  with  joy  grown 

bold 

Set  the  fair  crystal  in  the  thought  of  man  ; 

And  Time,  with  antique  tints  of  ivory  wan, 

And  gentle  industries  of  rain  and  light, 

Its  stones  rejoiced,  and  o'er  them  crumbled 

gold 

"Won  from  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 

Pisa,  May,  1891. 

(48) 


THE  VESTAL'S  DREAM 

Ah,  Venus,  white-limbed  mother  of  delight. 
Why  shoiildst  thou  tease  her  with  a  dream  so 

dear  ? 
Winged  tenderness  of  kisses,  hovering  near, 
Her  gentle  longings  cheat.     Forbidden  sight 
Of  eager  eyes  doth  through  the  virgin  night 
Perplex  her  innocence  with  cherished  fear. 
O  cruel  thou,  with  sweets  to  ripen  here 
In  wintry  cloisters  what  can  know  but  blight. 
Wilt  leave  her  now  to  scorn  ?     The  lictor's 
blows 
To-morrow  shall  be  merciless.     The  light 
Dies  on  the  altar  !  Nay,  swift  through  the  night. 
Comes  pitifid  the  queen  of  young  desire, 
That  reddened  in  a  dream  this  chaste  white 
rose, 
And  lights  with  silver  torch  the  fallen  fire. 

Rome,  May,  1891. 

(49) 


LINCOLN 

Chained  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state, 
His  spirit  armed  in  mail  of  rugged  mirth, 
Ever  above,  though  ever  near  to  earth, 
Yet  felt  his  heart  the  vulture  beaks  that  sate 
Base  appetites,  and  foul  with  slander,  wait 
Till  the  keen  lightnings  bring  the  awful  hour 
When  woimds  and  suffering  shall  give  them 
power. 
Most  was  he  like  to  Luther,  gay  and  great, 

Solemn  and  mirtliful,  strong  of  heart  and 
limb. 
Tender  and  simple  too  ;  he  was  so  near 
To  all  things  human  that  he  cast  out  fear, 
And,  ever  simpler,  like  a  little  child, 

Lived  in  unconscious  nearness  unto  Him 
Who  always  on  earth's  little  ones  hath  smiled, 

Newport,  October,  1891. 

(50) 


THE   LOST  PHILOPENA 

TO    M.    G.    M. 

More  blest  is  he  who  gives  than  who  receives, 
For  he  that  gives  doth  always  something  get : 
Angelic  usurers  that  interest  set : 
And  what  we  give  is  like  the  cloak  of  leaves 

Which   to   the   beggared   earth  the   great 
trees  fling, 
Thoughtless  of  gain  in  chilly  Autumn  days : 
The  mystic  husbandry  of  nature's  ways 

Shall  fetch   it   back    in   greenery   of   the 
Spring. 
One  tender  gift  there  is,  my  little  maid, 
That  doth  the  giver  and  receiver  bless, 
And  shall  with  obligation  none  distress  ; 
Coin  of  the  heart  in  God's  just  balance  weighed  ; 
Wherefore,  sweet  spendthrift,  still  be  prodigal, 
And  freely  squander  what  thou  hast  from  all. 

Lucerne,  July,  1891. 

(51) 


ST.   CHRISTOPHER 


FOR  A   CHILD 


There  was  none  so  tall  as  this  giant  bold. 

He  had  a  name  that  could  not  be  told, 

A  name  so  crooked  no  Christian  men 

Could  say  it  over  and  speak  again. 

One  day  he  came  where  a  good  man  prayed 

All  alone  in  the  forest  shade. 

Then  the  giant  in  wonder  said  : 

"  Why  do  you  bend  the  knee  and  head  ?  " 

"  I  bend,"  he  said,  "  because  I  be 
The  weakest  thing  that  you  can  see. 
I  pray  for  help  to  do  no  wrong, 
To  Christ  who  is  so  good  and  strong." 

"  Ho,"  said  the  giant,  "  when  I  see 
One  strong  enough  to  conquer  me, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  bend  my  knees, 
Which  are  as  stout  as  any  trees." 

"  But,"  said  the  good  man,  sad  and  old, 

"  Yon  stream  is  deep,  the  water  cold. 
Prayer  is  the  Spirit's  work  for  some. 

(52) 


ST.  CHRISTOPHER  53 

Work  is  the  prayer  of  the  body  dumb." 
"  If  that  be  prayer,"  said  the  giant  tall, 
"  The  maimed  and  sick,  the  weak  and  small. 
Across  the  stream  and  to  and  fro, 
I  shall  carry  and  come  and  go, 
Until  the  time  when  I  shaU  see 
Thy  strong  Christ  come  to  humble  me." 
So  all  day  long,  with  patient  hand. 
He  bore  the  weak  from  strand  to  strand. 
At  last,  one  eve,  when  winds  were  wild. 
He  heard  the  voice  of  a  little  child 
Saying,  "  Giant,  art  thou  asleep  ? 
Carry  me  over  the  river  deep." 
On  his  shoulder  broad  he  set  the  child. 
And  laughed  to  see  how  the  infant  smiled. 
Up  to  his  waist  the  giant  strode. 
While  fierce  around  the  water  flowed  ; 
His  great  back  shook,  his  great  knees  bent. 
As  staggering  through  the  waves  he  went. 
"  Why  is  this  ?  "  he  cried  aloud  : 
"Why  should  my  great  back  be  bowed  ?  " 
Spake  from  his  shoidder,  sweet  and  clear, 
A  voice,  —  't  was  like  a  bird's  to  hear,  — 
"  I  am  the  Christ  to  whom  men  pray 
When  comes  the  morn  and  wanes  the  day." 


64  ST.   CHRISTOPHER 

"  No,"  said  the  giant,  "  a  child  art  thou. 
Not  to  a  babe  shall  proud  men  bow!  " 
He  set  the  child  on  the  farther  land, 
And  wiped  his  brow  with  shaking  hand. 

"  In  truth,"  he  cried,  "  the  load  was  great ; 
Wherefore  art  thou  this  heavy  weight  ?  " 
The  little  child  said,  "  I  was  heavy  to  thee 
Because  the  world's  sins  rest  on  me." 

"  If  thou  canst  carry  them  all  on  thee, 
Who  art  but  a  little  child  to  see, 
Thou  must  be  strong,  and  I  be  weak. 
And  thou  must  be  the  one  I  seek." 
Therefore  the  giant,  day  by  day. 
Still  kept  his  work,  and  learned  to  pray. 
And  his  pagan  name  that  none  should  hear, 
Was  changed  to  Giant  Christopher. 
1887. 


DREAMLAND 

Up  anchor  !     Up  anchor  ! 

Set  sail  and  away! 
The  ventures  of  dreamland 

Are  thine  for  a  day. 
Yo,  heave  ho ! 

Aloft  and  alow 
Elf  sailors  are  singing, 

Yo,  heave  ho ! 
The  breeze  that  is  blowing 

So  sturdily  strong 
Shall  fill  up  thy  sail 

With  the  breath  of  a  song. 
A  fay  at  the  mast-head 

Keeps  watch  o'er  the  sea ; 
Blown  amber  of  tresses 

Thy  banner  shall  be ; 
Thy  freight  the  lost  laughter 

That  sad  souls  have  missed, 
Thy  cargo  the  kisses 

That  never  were  kissed. 

(55) 


66  DREAMLAND 

And  ho,  for  a  fay  maid 

Born  merry  in  June, 
Of  dainty  red  roses 

Beneath  a  red  moon. 
The  star-pearls  that  midnight 

Casts  down  on  the  sea, 
Dark  gold  of  the  sunset 

Her  fortune  shall  be. 
And  ever  she  whispers. 

More  tenderly  sweet, 
"  Love  am  I,  love  only, 

Love  perfect,  complete. 
The  world  is  my  lordship. 

The  heart  is  my  slave  ; 
I  mock  at  the  ages, 

I  laugh  at  the  grave. 
Wilt  sail  with  me  ever, 

A  dream-haunted  sea. 
Whose  whispering  waters 

Shall  mm^mur  to  thee 
The  love-haunted  lyrics 

Dead  poets  have  made 
Ere  life  had  a  fetter. 

Ere  love  was  afraid  ?  " 


DREAMLAND  57 

Then  up  with  the  anchor ! 

Set  sail  and  away ! 
The  ventures  of  loveland 

Are  thine  for  a  day. 
Newport,  1890. 


EVENING   BY  THE   SEA 

With  noble  waste  of  lazy  hours 
I  loitered,  till  I  saw  the  moon, 
A  rosy  pearl,  hang  vast  and  strange 
Above  the  long  gray  dune  ! 

And  hither,  thither,  as  I  went, 

My  ancient  friend  the  sea  beside. 

Whatever  tune  my  spirit  sang 

The  dear  old  conu-ade  tried. 

Bak  Harbob,  1892. 

(58) 


IDLENESS 

There  is  no  dearer  lover  of  lost  hours 

Than  I. 
I  can  be  idler  than  the  idlest  flowers ; 

More  idly  lie 

Than  noonday  lilies  languidly  afloat, 

And  water  pillowed  in  a  windless  moat. 

And  I  can  be 

Stiller  than  some  gray  stone 

That  hath  no  motion  known. 

It  seems  to  me 

That  my  still  idleness  doth  make  my  own 

All  magic  gifts  of  joy's  simplicity. 

Restigouche  River,  1892. 

(59) 


A  GRAVEYARD 

As  beats  the  unrestful  sea  some  ice-clad  isle 

Set  in  the  sorrowful  night  of  arctic  seas, 

Some  lorn  domain  of  endless  silences. 

So,  echoless,  unanswered,  falleth  here 

The  great  voiced  city's  roar  of  fretful  life. 

Rome,  1891. 

(60) 


d 


LOSS 

Life  may  moult  many  feathers,  yet  delight 

To  soar  and  circle  in  a  heaven  of  joy  ; 

The  pinion  robbed  must  learn  more  swift  employ, 

Till  the  thinned  feathers  end  our  eager  flight. 

Bar  Harbor,  1892. 

(61) 


COME  IN 

"  Come  in."     I  stand,  and  know  in  thought 
The  honest  kiss,  the  waiting  word, 
The  love  with  friendship  interwrought, 
The  face  serene  by  welcome  stirred. 
Bar  Harbor,  1892. 

(62) 


GOOD-NIGHT 

Good-night.    Good-niglit.     Ah,  good  the  night 
That  wraps  thee  in  its  silver  light. 
Good-night.     No  night  is  good  for  me 
That  does  not  hold  a  thought  of  thee. 
Good-night. 

Good-night.     Be  every  night  as  sweet 

As  that  which  made  our  love  complete, 

Till  that  last  night  when  death  shall  be 

One  brief  "  Good-night,"  for  thee  and  me. 

Good-night. 
Newport,  1890. 

(63) 


THE  RISING  TIDE 

An  idle  man  I  stroll  at  eve, 

Where  move  the  waters  to  and  fro  ; 
Full  soon  their  added  gains  will  leave 

Small  space  for  me  to  come  and  go. 

Already  in  the  clogging  sand, 
I  walk  with  dull,  retarded  feet ; 

Yet  still  is  sweet  the  lessening  strand, 

And  still  the  lessening  light  is  sweet. 

Newport,  October,  1891. 

(64) 


VERSES 

READ  ON  THE  PRESENTATION  BY  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL 
TO  THE  PHILADELPHIA  COLLEGE  OP  PHYSICIANS  OF 
SARAH  W.  whitman's  PORTRAIT  OF  OLIVER  WEN- 
DELL   HOLMES,    M.    D. 

We  call  them  great  who  have  the  magic  art 
To  summon  tears  and  stir  the  human  heart, 
With  Active  grief  t6  bring  the  soul  annoy, 
And  leave  a  dew-drop  in  the  rose  of  joy. 
A  nobler  piu'pose  had  the  Masters  wise 
Who  from  your  walls  look  down  with  kindly 

eyes. 
Theirs  the  firm  hand  and  theirs  the  ready  brain 
Strong  for  the  battle  with  disease  and  pain. 
Large  were  their  lives :  these  scholars,  gentle, 

brave, 
Knew  all  of  man  from  cradle  unto  grave. 
What  note  of  torment  had  they  failed  to  hear  ? 
All  grief's  stern  gamut  knew  each  pitying  ear. 
Nor  theirs  the  useless  sympathy  that  stands 

(65) 


66  VEBSES 

Beside  the  suffering  with  defenseless  hands  ; 
Divinely  wise,  their  pity  had  the  art 
To  teach  the  brain  the  ardour  of  the  heart. 
These  left  a  meaner  for  a  nobler  George ; 
These  trod  the  red  snows  by  the  Valley  Forge, 
Saw  the  wild  birth-throes  of  a  nation's  life, 
The  long-drawn  misery  and  the  doubtful  strife  : 
Yea,  and  on  darker  fields  they  left  their  dead 
Where  grass-grown  streets  heard  but  the  bear- 
er's tread. 
While  the  sad  death-roll  of  those  fatal  days 
Left  small  reward  beyond  the  poor  man's  praise. 
Lo  !  Shadowy  gi'eetings  from  each  canvas  come, 
Lips  seem  to  move  now  for  a  century  dumb  : 
From  tongues  long  hushed  the  sound  of  welcome 

falls, 
"  Place,  place  for  Holmes  upon  these  honoured 

waUs." 
The  lights  are  out,  the  festal  flowers  fade, 
Oiu'  guests  are  gone,  the  great  hall  wi-apped  in 

shade. 
Lone  in  the  midst  this  silent  picture  stands, 
jRinged  with  the  learning  of  a  score  of  lands. 
From  dusty  tomes  in  many  a  tongue  I  hear 
A  gentle  Babel,  —  "  Welcome,  Brother  dear. 


VERSES  67 

Yea,  though  Apollo  won  thy  larger  hours, 
And  stole  our  fruit,  and  only  left  us  flowers, 
The  poet's  rank  thy  title  here  completes  — 
Doctor    and    Poet,  —  so    were    Goldsmith,  — 

Keats." 
The  voices  failing  murmur  to  an  end 
With  "  Welcome,  Doctor,  Scholar,  Poet,  Friend." 

In  elder  days  of  quiet  wiser  folks. 

When  the  great  Hub  had  not  so  many  spokes. 

Two  wandering  Gods,  upon  the  Common,  found 

A  weary  schoolboy  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

Swift  to  his  brain  their  eager  message  went. 

Swift  to  his  heart  each  ardent  claim  was  sent ; 

"  Be  mine,"  Minerva  cried.    "  This  tender  hand 

Skilled  in  the  art  of  arts  shall  understand 

With  magic  touch  the  demon  pain  to  lay. 

From  skiU  to  skiU  and  on  to  clearer  day 

Far  through  the  years  shall  fare   that   ample 

brain 
To  read  the  riddles  of  disease  and  pain." 
"  Nay,  mine  the  boy,"  Apollo  cried  aloud, 
"  His  the  glad  errand,  beautiful  and  proud. 
To  wing  the  arrows  of  delightful  mirth, 
To  slay  with  jests  the  sadder  things  of  earth. 


68  VERSES 

At  his  gay  science  melancholy  dies, 

At  his  clear  laugh  each  morbid  fancy  flies. 

Rich  is  the  quiver  I  shall  give  his  bow, 

The  eagle's  pinion  some  bold  shafts  shall  know  ; 

Swift  to  its  mark  the  angry  arrow-song 

Shall  find  the  centre  of  a  nation's  wi*ong ; 

Or  in  a  people's  heart  one  tingling  shot 

Pleads  not  in  vain  against  the  war-ship's  lot. 

Yea,  I  will  see  that  for  a  gentler  flight 

The  dove's  soft  feathers  send  his  darts  aright 

When  smiles  and  pathos,  kindly  wedded,  chant 

The  plaintive  lay  of  that  unmarried  aunt ; 

Or  sails  his  Nautilus  the  sea  of  time, 

Blown  by  the  breezes  of  immortal  rhyme, 

Or  with  a  Godspeed  from  her  poet's  brain, 

Sweet  Cl^mence  trips  adown  the  Rue  de  Seine. 

The  humming-bird   shall  plume  the  quivering 

song, 
Blithe,  gay,  and  restless,  never  dull  or  long, 
Where  gayly  passionate  his  soul  is  set 
To  sing  the  Katydid's  supreme  regret, 
Or  creaking  jokes,  through  never-ending  days. 
Rolls  the  quaint  story  of  the  Deacon's  chaise. 
Away  with  tears !     When  this  glad  poet  sings. 
The  angel  Laughter  spreads  her  broadest  wings, 


VEBSES  69 

By  land  and  sea  where'er  St.  George's  cross 
And  the  starred  banner  in  the  breezes  toss, 
The  merry  music  of  his  wholesome  mirth 
Sends  rippling  smiles  around  our  English  earth." 

"  Not  mine,"  Minerva  cried,  "  to  spoil  thy  joy ; 
Divide  the  honours,  —  let  us  share  the  boy !  " 

April,  1892. 


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